


And yet my sky shall not want

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Historium Commentfest 2019, M/M, Melancholy, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 23:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: If morning never comes, it's alright. He will write, and some of the words will remain. They will live in his heart, with the stars, with the persistence of love.Everything has changed, but the words are still there.





	And yet my sky shall not want

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/14759.html?thread=118183#cmt118183).
> 
> The title is taken (rather obviously! ;) from act III, scene VII of Henry V.

_Come gentle spring, come at winter's end_  
_Gone is the pallor from a promise that's nature's gift_  
_Waiting for the colour of spring_

_Let me breathe_  
_Let me breathe the colour of spring_

Talk Talk: [April 5th](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRx0rqqTetc).

*

Time is running out. The seconds sting and hurt.

Everything has changed. The world won't stop moving, and nothing make sense. The fields are barren and empty. There is nothing, nothing but the thorns, nothing but the sharp, rough iron and copper, the rain in the distance. They are here, right here on the edge, slowly fading into the night.

They sit by the fire. They sit by the blade, and the blade says that there is no tomorrow. But still, they wait for morning. They wait, with the hidden stars above. They are lost now, they can't go back. And their masks are gone, and something has broken. It's too late, but they won't be afraid. _They_ won't break. No, they won't.

They wish for the morning, while holding on to the night. By the fire, they drink. One more, one more, to take the edge off. And then, one more, to make it sting, to make it hurt. Tonight, they would do anything, anything to make the world stop. But no, no holy rites now. There is nothing to do now, nothing but to wait by the fire until morning.

There is nothing but silence. And there is no time left.

*

Now the night is sharp, and the shadows fall. He can't see anymore, but he remembers. He remembers everything. In his mind, he always walks in the light. He walks, brave and proud. In his sky, the stars and the sun. His big heart. His eyes, shining like the stars. His words, like treasures. His words, they keep him here.

In his dream, his hands are warm and kind, here, by the fire. He wants to reach out for them, to hold them tightly, for courage, for comfort. His heart is laid bare, raw and red and black, like an open wound. He wants to put it back together again. He wants to let it find a new rhythm, to let it _be_. He wants to believe again. _Let me breathe_ , he thinks. Perhaps, he wants to be weak.

Tonight, his heart finds a new language, a hideaway. He thinks about new words to define the stars. Words to do them justice. Words to say what he cannot. Too many words. Or not enough. Still, he holds them close to his heart. He holds the words like home, like love, pulsing and roaring and warm and _alive_. As close to perfect as he will ever get. And he doesn't let go.

But he doesn't write. No, not yet. If morning ever comes, he will. He can wait. He won't forget.

The stars will fall tomorrow. They might leave a kiss on his brow, on his hand. Now, in the dark, he is here. And he wants for nothing, nothing but one thing. Oh, would it were day. Would it were day, so he could see the smile in his eyes. Like Orléans in the summer. Like poems yet unwritten.

It's late, but it doesn't matter. He knows that he won't sleep. Instead, he waits for it to be light, so that he might write. So that he can let the words go and fade free into the night. He looks out, up to the sky. If morning never comes, it's alright. He will write, and some of the words will remain. They will live in his heart, with the stars, with the persistence of love.


End file.
